


You Know Me

by BrieRenae



Series: SteveandBucky one-shots [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, One-Shot, but it's hella cheesy, eh, not really sure what this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:50:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4603965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrieRenae/pseuds/BrieRenae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick drabble in which the Winter Soldier shows signs of humanity and Steve refuses to ignore even the smallest things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeftShark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftShark/gifts).



“Vitals are normal."

“Brain waves normal."

“Restraints offline, operational."

 

* * *

 

 

He could hear voices.

All he ever did was hear voices coming from behind the one-way mirrors surrounding him. No one ever stayed the room (read: cell) for longer than five minutes, so he was forced to stare at either the grimy floor, the stark white ceiling, or his reflection.

He hated his reflection. Had hated it ever since that visit to the museum. The man in the video, laughing with the blond and seeming so at peace with himself, so happy, mocked him. Every time he so much as faced one of the mirrors, he saw that man's grin, as if it was daring him to remember.

But he couldn't remember. He didn't want to, and those voices knew it. No matter what they said to him through the speakers or on the rare occasions they actually spoke to him face-to-face, he remained motionless, back ramrod straight in his chair.

He hadn't expected her at all. One moment, he was there, vacantly staring at the floor, dimly aware of muffled conversations being carried out behind the glass. The next, she was in his head, digging. He felt her trying to dislodge the suppressed memories, heard her voice murmuring in accented English as she conversed with the other voices. The pain was excruciating. She was breaking down the dams too quickly, and everything was rushing in all at once, and he couldn't—

 

* * *

 

_Dark._

_Cold._

He was on the floor. When did that happen? When did the men arrive?

He remained silent as they — six of them, the eye-patched man and redheaded woman standing a few feet away — hoisted him back into the chair, shining lights in his eyes and speaking loudly.

"James. Do you know where you are?"

"Can you stand on your own?"

"Alright, just sit back. Relax, James."

They were too close, too close, _too close_.

He tensed as he repositioned himself in the metal chair. The men continued to crowd him, shining those aggravating lights in his eyes again. Quickly, he took in his surroundings. There were six of them, only two carrying out any evaluations, meaning the other four were there for protection. He began sizing them up, running through possible attack patterns in his head, and then stopped as his eyes locked in on something.

The door was open, possibly in haste. He had a faint idea of the layout of this place, thanks to doing nothing but listen to people talk about it all day. He knew that if he could make it out of the cell block, he could sneak through an emergency exit and disappear, like he so desperately wanted to.

No one was blocking the doorway. If he could just...

He flexed his fingers a bit, feeling the wiring in his arm hum to life after being disused for so long. All it would take was one swing to the left to take out the doctors, another punch and a combination of kicks to get rid of the muscle. He could do it. As one doctor turned to consult her notes, he drew his right arm closer to his body, preparing to lash out. She looked back up, and he—

— completely disregarded the whisper of movement behind him and lunged, only to collide with the back of the chair as his arms were quickly enveloped by the restraints. He gaped in confusion, ignoring the startled cry of the doctor in favor of figuring out how this had happened.

"Subject continues to attempt aggressive action against personnel," came a voice from behind him. "Isolation has proved to be futile in initiating recovery."

He recognized that voi — it was her. The redheade — Natalia.

The doctor carefully transcribed Romanoff's words onto her notepad and backed up, allowing Natalia and the eyepatched man to step into his line of sight. The guards took up positions on either side of him. He clenched his fists, growling low in his throat as the armrests refused to yield to his grip.

The man with the eyepatch drew closer to him, and he instinctively schooled his expression into one of cold calculation. 

“You're not in any danger here, Barnes. We're not going to hurt you."

"Don't call me that," he snapped, voice rasping painfully in his throat. Neither showed any visible reaction to the first words he'd spoken that expressed a personal desire.

Natalia studied him, eyes lingering on his clenched jawline, then flying up to his hair, then all the way back down his body. He didn't dare squirm under her gaze and turned back to the eyepatched man.

"She hurts."

The man's eye narrowed a bit and darted to Romanoff for a beat before he turned all the way around.

"Ms. Maximoff, I told you not to use force."

She appeared in the doorway, fiddling with her rings and the bracelets adorning her pale arms, clearly nervous as her bright eyes flitted around the cell.

"You told me to get into his head. I had to use force to do so; his mental blocking is not what I expected."

She spoke with a slight intonation. A lilting accent that his mind raced to place. It was almost Russian. Not pure Russian, there was a hint of urbanity there, possibly—

"Anything we need to worry about?" Natalia crossed over to stand by the dark-haired girl, who shook her head.

"I could get past them," she glanced furtively at him, "but only because he wasn't expecting me."

Natalia shared a look with the eyepatched man, visibly unhappy with the girl hinting at an advantage their captive possessed.

"So you got past the blocks. Did you see anything?" He noticed that the redhead's accent became more prominent as she spoke with one who came from the Motherland as well.

The girl's shoulders sagged. “Like I said, I got through. But his projections were too jumbled for me sort through before he collapsed."

They continued to converse around him as the doctors finished their evaluation, all code words he had no desire to find the meaning of.

The girl's words were bouncing around the inside of his skull.

_He hadn't been ready._

But he would be the next time. Always ready.

 

* * *

 

Romanoff began to visit him a lot after that. Usually, she was quiet, pacing the length of the cell and simply watching him. Sometimes she brought him food, but he was never hungry anymore, hadn't been for a long time. On this day, however, she brought a chair and seated herself across from him. She left mere inches between their knees,  obviously undeterred by his restraints, which were currently offline. He avoided her gaze, didn't like the barely-veiled curiosity in her eyes.

“ _L_ _ook at me_."

He was surprised at how quickly he obeyed, head snapping to attention and back straightening in preparation for an order, then realized that she'd given the command in Russian.

“ _What do we call you?_ "

He weighed the question in his mind.

Up until his failed mission— _no, don't think about the man on the bridge_ — he'd never been called anything resembling an actual name.

_The Asset._

_The Assassin._

_The Winter Soldier._

_Bucky._

No. Not Bucky. Not James or Sergeant Barnes ** _._**

Her face came back into focus, eyes intent.

“I don't have one. A name." He replied in English, put off by how much control her words had over him simply because of the language they were spoken in. She regarded him silently, then rose to her feet and dipped her head in farewell.

_“Spasibo."_ Thank you.

He flinched.

* * *

_One, two. One, two, three. One, two, three, four..._

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Steve ran through his warm-ups, wrapped knuckles meeting the punching bag's duct-taped middle with satisfying thuds. After the team's morning excursion with a gang of wannabe vigilantes who had tried to infiltrate the base, they'd all gone their separate ways. Steve preferred to stay in motion by indulging in one of his favorite pasttimes. His swings were fluid, lulling him into a nice state of unawareness. All that was here was the bag. Just his fists. Just the swings.

A hand clapped down into his shoulder, and he instinctively spun away, lunging towards the attacker who was...

Sam.

“Whoa, big guy. Calm down. It's just me." The lean man held out his hands, calming Steve's aggressive action.

“Sorry." Steve shrugged and turned back to the bag, speaking over his shoulder as he fell back into his rhythm. “What's going on?" No one ever interrupted Steve during his alone time.

“Fury sent out an update. I figured you don't have your phone on you."

“You're right." _One, two, three._ “What's the update?"

“Winter's coming around. Talking."

The words were blunt, but they carried a weight that Steve felt pressing down on him from all sides. He dropped his hands, meeting Sam's eyes warily. “Again?"

Over the months that had passed since his capture, the Winter Soldier— Steve had to remind himself that it wasn't really Bucky, not yet— had exhibited signs of a possible return to humanity. Recalling the names of the Commandos, asking if Dr. Zola had been captured, if they'd won the war. All such reassuring signs. 

But every time the doctors tried to encourage more out of him, the Soldier retreated further into himself and resumed his silence. By the time he'd decide to speak again, they'd be back to square one.

Steve hated that he took such things to heart, hated that no matter how many times he was let down, he refused to let those little instances be insignificant. This was why he brushed past Sam, not bothering to unwrap his hands as he did.

“It could be nothing again, Cap." Sam's words fell upon deaf ears as Steve left the gym and headed for Selvig's lab, hidden within the lower levels of the compound.

As he boarded the elevator and selected the floor, _it_ hit him again. That swell of hope filling his body and making him smile like an idiot. The image of that worn, bruised face finally returning to its clean-shaven, cockily-smiling glory. Hearing that familiar warmth in his voice...

The elevator's ding and stop jolted him out of his thoughts, but they remained at the back of his mind as he sped down the hall, closer to the door, closer to that cell. Closer to Bucky.

 

 

* * *

 

_"Who's strong and brave, here to save the American way?"_   The USO reel was dated, meaning Fury had had to put in a request for a compatible projector, which a few brave souls had volunteered to install in the Soldier's cell. Under the watchful eye of Romanoff, they'd set the screen up, then hustled out of the chamber, away from those hauntingly blank eyes.

“This is so cheesy." Rhodes commented in an attempt to break the silence hanging over the group assembled behind the one-way mirrors. “Look at what he's wearing!"

"Rhodes, you had an entire _suit_ based off of his uniform, don't forget," Natasha quipped.

“It is pretty ridiculous," Fury commented. “Can't imagine anyone being able to forget those tights, so hopefully it'll do the job."

With their initial plan of keeping the Soldier isolated falling through, the team had had to come up with another idea. This had been Wilson's; they were hoping that viewing the reels would get the Soldier back into the right headspace when it came to his old friend. So far, they'd gone through six different reels with nothing to show for them.

They continued to watch in silence, spread out around Selvig's monitoring desk and facing the Soldier head on. The door to the observation area suddenly burst open, calling their attention to where a hassled-looking Steve had arrived with Sam at his heels. There was still tape on his hands.

He opened his mouth to speak, then fell silent as he heard the familiar score. Wordlessly, he joined them, lowering himself into a chair beside Natasha and zeroing in on the Soldier beyond the glass.

The projector's light flickered over his face, eyes still flat as they took in the footage, the red, white, and blue-clad man delivering catchy slogans to the fawning public. As the 'star-spangled man with a plan' turned to face a crowd of adoring fans and became swamped within their ranks, the Soldier stiffened. It was a miniscule shift, nearly indetectable if you'd happened to glance away for a second.

“What's this about?" Romanoff muttered, her sharp eyes detecting the movement. “Watch him closely."

Steve leaned forward.

Captain America continued on his merry quest, taking down threats in Germany, knocking out Hitler himself, and taking time to visit the masses in between. Once again, he was caught off guard by a group of admirers and once again, the Soldier's posture wavered.

The Soldier regarded the screen with a fiery intensity, the most emotion he'd displayed since arriving. Then, in the midst of a scene where Captain America and company sat around a campfire, he spoke. The words were obviously meant for his own ears, but Selvig turned a dial a few notches, and they could hear him.

“Strong right hook, usually followed up by a left cross. Takes his weight onto his right leg, leaving left unprotected."

The words were robotic, monotonous, and Fury gave an exasperated huff.

“He's still recalling his list of weaknesses. Write it all down, Cho."

She obeyed, and as the reel drew to an end, they regrouped at Selvig's sides. Steve remained seated, and Fury patted his shoulder.

“Another false alarm, Cap. We'd better head out so he can rest."

Steve kept staring at the man now slumped in his seat, eyes downcast and dull.

“Steve?" Natasha inquired, drawing close enough to have him look at her.

“What he just said. That wasn't a random recollection."

The group turned their full attention to Rogers as he spoke, voice full of careful realization.

“When he trained me for the war, back at Goldie's, he would always point out that I had a problem with hitting so hard and so fast that I didn't bother to notice what I was leaving vulnerable. Every time, he'd get me in the left leg."

Cho ducked her head again, scribbling carefully.

 

* * *

 

His head was pounding.

It was her. The girl. She'd gotten into his head again and he hadn't been able to prepare for it.

During the whole video, he'd felt faint stirrings of recognition towards the hero. But it was only because he had seen that man, months ago on the highway.

That was it.

The sudden flashes of memory came at the moments when the Captain had appeared even the slightest bit vulnerable, such as when being mobbed by fans.

The slight glimmer of fear in his eyes...

_“I'm not gonna fight you. You're my fr—"_

Suddenly, his body pitched forward, hitting with a loud smack as his back connected with the concrete. He writhed and clawed at the air, the pain too much for him to form words.

He could feel the memories rushing forth as she rooted around, no clear method to what she was doing.

_He was falling, and a gloved hand grasped at the place where his own had rested mere seconds before—_

_He was cold, wide awake and able to see the needles injecting fluids into his body—_

_There were people crowding him, sneering as they drove fists and boots into the sides of his weakened body, cracking and shattering bones all in the hopes of watching them repair themselves—_

He cried out, a broken, hitching roar, and rolled into his stomach, metal fist pounding the ground.

_He was flitting through alleyways, following the sound of hits connecting with skin and then he was on them, punching and kicking and doing everything in his power to get those bastards away from the powerless form slumped against the brick wall—_

_He **had**_ to _protect him, **had** to keep fighting to make sure that the man was okay, that he was alive—_

_“Bucky? Is, ah, you?"_

_This memory was warm, fuzzy around the edges, filling him with a strong sense of devotion to the person calling his name._

_The small man lay on a cot, a cool, wet rag on his forehead and a smile on his face._

_Smiling at him._

_“I'm here, buddy." His own voice came forward, so smooth and tender as he bent over the man— caught another cold from sneaking into the hospital to visit his mom, the little punk— and lifted the rag to plant a gentle kiss to the damp skin on his forehead._

_“I'm here."_

"He's not responding. Get him on his feet."

Numerous arms hooked beneath his stomach and shoulders pulling him up. His body responded liquidly, and he had the dizzying sense of riding a roller coaster.

But that wasn't possible.

He'd never been on a—

_“Okay, how about this? Ride this one with me and I'll let you decide what movie we go see tomorrow night."_

_This one was all bright lights and music and the happy chatter of the Island's attendants, but all his attention was focused on the man at his side, close, but not so much to earn them stares._

_The man considered this, eyeing the structure in question._

_“I don't know. I just had a burger— what if I throw up?"_

_“You're not gonna hurl, Steve, that's just an old wives' tale, like having to wait half an hour before swimming after a meal."_

_“You're actually supposed to wait a full hour, Buck."_

_“See? I wait 30 minutes, I'm right as rain. You'll be fine."_

Another jolt of pain ran through his body, and he dropped to his knees in spite of the men holding him up.

He was _here._

The alleys were far away. Coney Island was far away. Did that mean that the man was far away, too?

“What's going on? Wanda? Why is he—?"

And then he was there, hands poised and constantly shifting, ready to grab, to help. His eyes — such a distinct shade of blue and green, how could he ever forget it? — were full of concern and hesitance.

Steve.

But Steve never worried about him. _He_ was the one who took care of Steve, _he_ was—

Dark again. _Restraints digging into his arms and legs, gunfire raging outside, Zola making a hasty retreat..._

_“Bucky?"_

It was Steve.

He was Bucky.

And that was Steve, and all of a sudden there were too many hands on him that didn't belong to the one he needed to feel.

He lurched to his feet, shrugging off the attempts to guide him back to the chair, shaking as he placed one quivering foot in front of the other. Steve withdrew his hands and squared his shoulders, bracing himself, and why did he look so afraid? Bucky would never hurt Steve. Right?

“You." It was out of his mouth before he realized it, and he came closer, stopping to meet those blue eyes directly.

“You?" Steve repeated, eyes everywhere except his own. Yet there was hope in those irises, and he'd never let Steve down before.

“You- you're." He paused, gulping to relieve the dryness of his throat. Steve watched, still in his defensive position, unsure of what to expect.

He opened his mouth once more, and rasped out the name. "Bucky."

Steve's posture relaxed instantly, but his eyes were still uncertain, flitting over the man in front of him, who'd now come up with an amendment to what he'd just said.

"You called me Bucky, right?"

“I—" And then it was arms wrapped firmly around his shoulders, nose buried into his hair, and warmth — so much warmth — inside of him.

Reflexively, he allowed his right arm to return the embrace, the motion so familiar and yet foreign. Then, carefully, he raised the other one.

It whirred gently as it met the skin on the back of Steve's neck, and the blond drew away, not breaking his hold, to look at it, then back at him.

“You remember?"

“I don't- not everything. But I remember you. Steve."

 

* * *

 

As they embraced again, the watching group couldn't help but cheer a bit, Fury nodding sagely at a straight-faced Wanda Maximoff.

She drew close enough that they could hear only each other.

“How long can you maintain that hold?"

“At the moment, he appears to be himself. The blocks he's put up mean I can work almost undetected in his mind. But it won't be long before his eyes begin to change. That will be enough to alert the Captain."

“Then we have a few hours to spend digging. Are you strong enough?"

She nodded, eyes on the one she commanded.

“I will continue to try and find what you need, but after that he will return to his former state if you don't jump in while his mind is still unprotected."

“Then we will."

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the cliffhanger might seem a little awkward, but this is how I originally wrote it. 
> 
> Sorry for any typos!


End file.
